Brothers and Sisters
by Moczo
Summary: One night, in a lost temple far beneath the Sword Coast, dark forces stirred with dark intent towards the children of a dead god. Battle was joined, and when the smoke cleared only two of these special children still lived. Or... was it three?
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

(*)

There are some places in the Realms that no good can possibly come of, and this was one of them.

The temple was, itself, a place obviously meant for darkness. Hidden away beneath the ground, surrounded by undead, lit only by flickering torches illuminating the skull engraved upon the floor and surrounded by a circle of teardrops—or possibly drops of blood—it was already not a place that any sane body would linger in. The circle of robed figures surrounding the altar set at the northern end of it, opposite the entrance, a low chant echoing between them, did not improve the scenario. The four armored black knights, Deathbringers clasping massive runed broadswords, made things worse still. The high priestess, her robes coated from head to toe in shimmering red blood, the sacrificial dagger clasped lovingly to her chest and an expression of almost sexual bliss on her face, completed the ensemble so perfectly that anyone who stumbled upon this most unholy of locations would be running for his or her life the instant they saw it. Assuming they _could, _considering the ghouls and animated skeletons that roamed freely about the caverns outside. The clerics no longer held magic to command such things, sadly, but the doors kept them out well enough, and they were naturally attracted to the temple site by the energy left by years of dark rituals. It would be foolish to disregard such valuable guard dogs.

It was the children, however, that were the worst part.

There were seven of them, ranging from infants to youths approaching their tenth year. Most looked human, but the humanoid races were often hard to differentiate as children, and the priests had hardly bothered to label them, so only a few were obvious. Two elves, one Gold, one Moon, identifiable by the odd shade of their skin and the points of their ears. One particularly large lad, dark skinned and far larger than his seven summers would have suggested, was clearly too tall already to be anything but human. One young boy, no more than four, already had a few thin whiskers that clearly marked him as a dwarf. But all had one thing in common: Save for one, each was kept in a separate, rusted metal cage that seemed more suitable for a kennel than a child.

There were also ten empty cages. They had not been empty overly long.

Most of them screamed, or cried, or begged for mercy, though not all. The young Moon elf sat in absolute silence, staring into space. The dark-skinned human gripped the bars of his cage tightly, his already impressive muscles straining against the rusted iron.

And the only child that was not caged, a toddler not even to her second winter, was quiet and focused less on her shrieking companions and more upon a small cloth doll she played with in the corner of the temple. After all, she had little reason to be scared. She was not caged, was hardly old enough to realize what was going on, and most tellingly of all, her mother was there to keep her safe. She was discomforted by the noise, but mama had told her to keep quiet, and she was a good girl.

The high priestess rubbed the knife upon her robes, doing little but smearing the blood around. It was not intended to clean anything, but to bathe her in the love of her god, to carve upon her body and soul the _joy _of this holy day. A few motes of golden dust floated off the empty altar, drawn into the skull upon the floor, which seemed to briefly glow in response.

"Another," the high priestess murmured. "Our lord stirs."

The Deathbringers, faces hidden behind blank black helmets carved in the skull that was the lord's holy symbol, approached the cages and took out the oldest of the remaining girls, a child on the verge of growing into a woman. She screamed and wailed, kicked and bit, and was met with nothing more than annoyance as the only damage done was cuts to her own small fists on the jagged armor of her captors. Emotionless, cold, the four warriors strapped the girl to the altar with the shackles already placed upon it, ignoring her shrieks of terror and pleas for her mother.

"Do not worry," the high priestess said warmly. "Your mother is gone, but soon your father will be here."

The child blinked tear-stained eyes in confusion, briefly calming...

The sacrificial dagger dove into her throat, slashing open the artery and pulling out almost before the startled child even knew she'd been stabbed. She tried to scream, tried to cry, but produced nothing but a wet gurgle as her eyes grew glassy and dim after only a few seconds. The blood ran down the altar freely, spraying across the face of the serenely smiling priestess. She did not turn away, merely closed her eyes and basked in the warmth.

"Our lord and master, hear our prayer," she intoned as she had done after each of the sacrifices before. "This life we give to you, as you gave it to the world. Feast upon it, and return to us." The circle of clerics repeated her words softly, each clutching an identical, albeit cleaner, dagger to their chests, the blade etched with the same skull and teardrop as the symbol on the floor.

The child on the altar ceased struggling after a few seconds, the flow of blood from her throat slowing, then stopping. After a few short moments, her body vanished, dissolving in soft green light, which then shattered into motes of dust which were drawn once more into the temple's holy symbol.

"Another," the high priestess said, once again. "Our lord stirs."

The Deathbringers moved from their positions around the altar toward the cages once again, before the priestess said, "No. Stop."

"Mistress?" the leader of the warriors asked.

"My daughter. Bring my daughter to me," she said, smiling at the small red-haired toddler with her doll.

"I thought she was to be last?"

"Sentimentality only, commander. And now that we are here, so close... she should meet her father." the priestess's bloodstained smile was warm and maternal, a grim sight considering the blood that coated her like a second skin. "Bring me my daughter."

The Deathbringer commander shrugged, walking toward the toddler, who looked on quietly, without complaint. And why not? He had helped care for her all her life, and she knew her mother wouldn't hurt her. The commander reached down to pick up the child...

And the wooden double-doors of the temple blew inward, lightning searing through the temple in a blaze of sudden light and thunder, the smell of ozone filling the enclosed space. The bolt of lightning slammed home on the dais near the altar, striking one of the priests in the back, the man screaming as the electricity roared through him, his flesh blackening as he fell to the floor in a twitching, smoking mass.

Twelve figures, men and women alike, rushed into the temple, armed and armored, led by a young, black-bearded man in a gray robe. "Secure the children! No quarter!" he commanded, lightning still dancing between his outstretched fingers as he dove into another casting. Four of his companions halted with him, one raising a wand and the other three letting fly arrows, as those of their group armed with melee weapons charged into the fray, swords and spears at the ready.

The Deathbringers met them; outnumbered, but armed and armored with finer gear, they halted the charge dead in the center of the temple. Swords met and clashed, the fighters taking lead slamming against the Deathbringer line with steel as the spearmen backing them jabbed through holes in the melee, seeking holes in the enemy's armor. Arrows slammed into them and skipped off plate steel, one bolt flashing past to strike another cleric in the eye. The man did not even scream as he fell bonelessly.

The high priestess snarled, her expression shifting with mad speed from serene joy to insane fury as her eyes locked on the painfully familiar figure of the mage leading the attackers. She cast off her blood-soaked robe, revealing a shirt of dark chainmail and a mace at her side, screaming, "They _must not _take the children! Kill them! _Kill them all!" _

The surviving clerics followed suit, drawing slings, wands, and hammers from beneath robes. Their god could not hear them, but each was a killer, and they joined battle with deadly intent. For a time, it seemed they had the upper hand; with the addition of the clerics, the battle raging in the center of the temple was even in numbers, and the Deathbringers had held back the attackers on their own. A warhammer swatted aside a longsword, and one of the armored knights struck in, cutting the man nearly in half with a single swing of his massive blade. The attackers began to fall back, the swordsmen dissolving into the line of pikemen behind them...

And then the mage finished his casting.

The fireball slammed into the altar and exploded, shattering the stone table and incinerating the two priests still standing near it slinging stones, and it became clear that the attackers falling back had been all part of the plan. The flames roared back through the center of the temple, rolling over the priests and Deathbringers, but stopping just short of both the children and the attacking warriors. This time, ironically, it was the Deathbringers who took the worst of it, their thicker and all-covering armor soaking the heat in, cooking them inside the steel. The priests screamed in agony, flame rolling over them, burning them and heating their chainmail.

The attacking warriors redoubled their assault. A Deathbringer who had cast aside his burning helmet to gasp for air fell, a spear driving into his neck. Another went down to an arrow slipping into the mouth-slit of his helmet as he reeled, stunned. The tide turned.

For the first time, the redhaired toddler began to cry, as she saw her mother fall. Death, she had seen all her life. Mama had never been hurt. She shrieked, uncertain and terrified, huddling against the walls of the temple.

(*)

The young, dark-skinned boy blinked in confusion and pain. The blast of the fireball had not harmed him beyond some bruises, the shock throwing him against the bars... but it had also knocked some rocks free from the crumbling ceiling of the buried temple. One had landed in his cage, and the lock was rusty...

The boy slammed the rock home, and the lock shattered with a single sharp snap. He broke out, repeating the process five more times, letting the doors fly open. "This is all you get from me," he snarled at the other children, before running for the door as the two warring parties clashed.

Of the five children still living, the halfling girl was too small to run, too broken to realize she should. She sat blankly in her cage, staring at nothing and sobbing quietly. The dwarf boy and the human boy were screaming, panicking, huddling to their cages as if the bars would protect them from the madness.

The Moon elf boy grabbed the little Gold elf girl, and dragged her from her cage even as she squeaked in protest. He was older than her, and larger, and though she struggled briefly he pulled her along without much effort, sprinting for the door.

"_The children!" _the high priestess screamed, running for the cages and ignoring the arrow that slammed into her thigh, the fanatic madness overwhelming the pain. The sacrifices, the ritual, had given the essence in the children greater power. It would delay the awakening to simply kill them...

But it would delay it far more to let them live, and her lord _stirred_.

She slammed open the door of the first cage and brought her mace down on the child within, hard.

(*)

Gorion cursed, drawing a silver wand from his belt and aiming it at the priestess. It was too late to save the first of the children, but gods willing...

A hurled warhammer slammed into his wards, the magical protections dulling the blow but doing nothing to stop it from obscuring his vision and balance. He cursed once again, shifting his wand to aim at the charging cleric, and sending a wave of cold against the zealot, freezing him in mid-step. The wand, its final charge used up, disintegrated in his hand.

He shifted his gaze upon the priestess once again, casting the quickest spell he could think of that would not endanger the children. Tiny bolts of red-white light struck out, searing into her flank, exacerbating her already existing wound.

She barely seemed to notice, her mad smile only growing wider as she brought her mace down a second time, on a second child.

Gorion snarled in rage, focusing his mind, and cast again as she limped to the final cage. The words slid from his lips without a stutter, his fingers weaving, and another magical missile, and arrow lined with fire, leaped from his fingers. The woman clasped the final door in her hand...

The arrow slammed into her spine, flames running down her back, and she tumbled, twitching madly. He sighed, running over to the cage and kicking her mace away. "It's over, Alianna. Not this one. You don't get this one."

The priestess looked up at him, a snarl on her face and madness whirling in her dying eyes. "Should have known... you were... one of _them. _But you were handsome and... well... a woman who has lost her love is... often weak for a handsome face..."

"If it helps, you did not give away enough information, no matter how much I... pressed," Gorion said flatly. "We found one of your acolytes who had fallen to Cyricism, and he sold the temple's location to us. You can die secure in the knowledge that your failure was outside your control. We are taking the children."

"The children..." Alianna the priestess said softly, as her hand slipped to her belt, "belong with their father."

Gorion's eyes had just enough time to widen as she slipped the small bottle from her pouch, and raised his quarterstaff to crush her skull...

Just a _second _too late.

The Oil of Impact detonated, the fireball blinding and deafening.

(*)

The Moon elf boy ran, the small golden-haired girl dragging behind him. "Stop _pulling!" _she shrieked.

"We have to run! They're going to come after us!"

"I—"

"Shut _up! _I'm not going to leave you, so just follow me!" he snapped back, stopping to shake her a few times. "We have to run, don't you understand?! I know you're scared, but..."

The girl sobbed, rubbing tears from her golden-skinned face, black eyes shimmering. "I... I... I... I'm just..."

He sighed. "I know you're scared. But we have to run. These people, they... they... my mother was... we have to _run_. Please."

"Y-yes. I'm... sorry," the girl said. "I... I wouldn't have... th-thank you. I was too scared to run. So thank you for saving me." She leaned in on impulse and kissed him on the cheek.

"You were the only other elf. I... well, I don't know. I could only take one, so..." he stammered, blushing furiously. He was older than he looked, past his tenth year, but he was still at an age where he was not _quite _sure how to react to this. "Look, let's just go, we can't stay here."

She nodded. "Right, I-"

She cut off, her body jerking oddly. The boy blinked in confusion as she fell forward into him, until he looked down and saw the arrow protruding from her chest, piercing through her filthy gray prisoner's robe...

Her body faded into light and dust before she even hit the ground. The last sight of her face the boy saw was the terror in her eyes vanishing into light...

A tall man with dark hair and plate armor, still holding a bow, stepped forward from the ruins littering the cavern, a woman in plain clothes at his side carrying a long, curved sword. "Galvarey," she said softly. "Gorion told us to act as the rearguard while he _saved _the children. What have you done...?"

"I saved her," the man said firmly, putting aside his bow and drawing a short sword as he walked toward the horrified young elf. "from a life as herself. It was the best I could do for the abomination."

"Gorion..."

"Gorion trusts too much, Kail." Galvarey picked up the young elf by his hair, pressing the short sword against his chest. "You don't want to live a whole life being hated and hunted by everyone in the world, do you boy? It's quicker this way."

"He's just a child..." the woman said softly.

The man with the dark beard pressed his sword more tightly against the elven boy's face, his expression grim. "Yes. A child of-"

He was cut off, then, by a hurled rock slamming into the side of his head. He snarled in rage as the elf boy sprinted away into the ruins, his eyes scanning the ruins for the source of the missile, and not seeing the young, dark-skinned boy slipping away into the shadows.

"Find him. Kill him. We can't let any of the children escape," Galvarey snapped, raising a hand gingerly to the bruise forming on his temple. He and Kail ran into the ruins after the boy...

The first ghoul found them in seconds, the price of speed over quiet. Their approach had been quiet and warded by spells both divine and arcane. Those wardings had expired, and the sentries noticed them. Two warriors clattering with metal were more of a target than a couple running children, after all...

The two fighters stood back to back, weapons raised as a dozen ghouls swarmed in at them from out of the ruined buildings of the dead city, hissing madly.

The elf boy and the human boy ran, as their pursuers fell into the rhythm of battle.

(*)

Gorion had been warded against flame. The light and smoke stunned him, the shock hurled him back, but the flame rolled over him without doing more than minor harm.

The child, and the priestess, and the warriors fighting in the center of the temple were not so lucky.

"Stand," a rough female voice said, pulling Gorion to his feet. "No good comes of the rest of us dying in this pit."

"Jaheira," Gorion said with a sigh. "We failed, didn't we."

"Aye, but not so horribly as if we had not intervened at all," Jaheira said firmly, running a gloved hand across her sweaty brow. She had been near the entrance with the archers, and taken only the lightest brunt of the blast. "We stopped the ritual, if nothing else. Though damn if the price was not high..."

Gorion's eyes widened. "Khalid?"

The woman smiled grimly. "Thank Silvanus he can handle a bow," she nodded back to the door, and her husband, who, against all logic or reason, waved at her, smiling nervously, his bow held at his side. "All those in the melee..."

"I saw," Gorion said with a sigh. "At least a few of the children escaped in the madness... it's more of a chance than they had before. But... but I had hoped we could save at least _one..." _

A soft, sniffling sob rang through the silent temple. Gorion, eyes wide with frantic hope, ran to the source of it, his robes swirling around him, and found her. Hidden behind the pillar, a young thing, no more than two, dressed in finer clothes than the children in the cages had been, bright red hair pulled into a ponytail...

The same as the hair her mother had had.

He had been seeing Alianna under cover for the better part of three months, trying to divulge some information from her. It had been among the more unpleasant assignments he'd ever undertaken. The priestess had been... like a serpent wearing human skin. Playing at being a woman of society, daughter of a wealthy merchant, walking among the Baldur's Gate gentry like she belonged there. Gorion had known what she really was, more than one agent had delivered the description of a priestess matching her description at the high temples of the Lord of Murder, long before the Time of Troubles. He had known she was still involved... just not known _where_ she did it, in secret.

The information really had come from a fallen Acolyte. He had 'courted' Alianna for three months, and found nothing of value from her. Not even that she'd been a mother to one of the Children herself.

The toddler looked up at him, tears streaking her face, and said one of the only five words she knew. "M-mama..."

Gorion smiled sadly, and pressed a hand to her forehead, a minor spell to lull her to sleep slipping from his fingers. "I'm sorry, little one. I'm sorry, but no."

"Gorion!" Khalid shouted. "G-Galvarey is back. H-he said that... that the undead took the children who escaped. H-he couldn't save t-t-them. Gods above..."

Jaheira snapped. "The creatures approach, and we've no spells of warding this time. All of you, get together. I'll patch what wounds I can, and we'll have to make a run of it."

Gorion sighed, wrapping the toddler in his cloak and preparing for another long sprint. "Just one. Just one..."

(*)

A mage in gray carried a red-haired young girl out of the darkness, her face streaked with tears and ash. The sun shone onto her copper-red hair, and he stroked her head as she slept.

In the alleys of the city of Baldur's Gate, a pale young elf and a dark young man crawled out of the sewers and turned to each other, their eyes far colder than boys their age should have been.

"You saved me?"

"I drew them in. Distracted the monsters. I didn't even see you," the human boy said. "I told you when I opened the cage: that's the last you're getting from me." His eyes were cold. Too cold for his age by far. "That's the last anyone is getting from me."

The elf tilted his head to one side. "Good. Then I don't owe you."

They each nodded once and ran in opposite directions, the human deeper into the city, the elf towards the gates.

Three children, each one meant to die, each one a survivor, took three different paths into the world.

In an empty, lifeless temple, among the corpses of his faithful and his foes alike, the skull of a dead god grinned in darkness.

(*)

**Author's Note: I can't believe I'm starting another story. I must really have a problem. **

**Still, this came out as the work of one afternoon. Maybe this one will update faster than usual! ::bitter, self-deprecating laughter:: **

**Well, I hope you enjoy it. I will be taking a few liberties with canon, most especially with the ages of those involved (In part because Throne of Bhaal makes no sense; if you go by the timeline established by that expansion, Gorion's Ward should have been nine years old at the start of the first game!). So I'm mostly just ignoring the official timeline. For fun! **

**And as always, please check my author page for links to both fanfiction and original work. Thanks! **


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

**(*)**

It was four years after the massacre at the temple, and the eleven-year-old Sarevok Anchev sat on his knees, tears of helpless fury running down his face.

He had escaped that Hell, living on the streets for some time, until he had been adopted by a well-off merchant, Rieltar Anchev, himself recently moved to the city and setting up a new branch of his guild. He and his wife were unable to conceive, and appearances were everything. To hide the couple's sterility, Sarevok had been chosen as their adoption... his dark skin and hair had hinted at Sembian heritage, much like his new 'parents', and few would question that he was not their child by blood.

He had not had much choice in the matter, but he had been content with it... his 'father' was a cold, distant, and brutal man, but hardly worse than living on the streets. He was made to study and train for long hours, learning swordsmanship from Sir Angelo Dosan, the half-elf swordmaster of the house guard, and letters and sums from Rieltar's attendant mage Winski. Sarevok had little love for either man, particularly the way the old wizard looked at him as though trying to peer through his skin and into his soul.

But food was plentiful, he had a warm bed to sleep in, and while his father might strike him on a whim, he never struck to kill or tried to force himself on the young boy. This set him above the denizens of the Gate's back alleys by far; Sarevok habitually carried two knives at all time for a _reason_. Better, Rieltar's wife, Arcine, was a meek and quiet but genuinely pleasant woman, who had gone above and beyond her husband's attitude to truly treat the boy like her own son. She was not above hiding the boy if he chose to skip out on a lesson or two, happy to slip him a small toy or a book of stories, always ready with a warm cup of tea or a small sweet. She was not his mother... he remembered little of his real mother, but he knew that much. But most days... he felt that she was _better _than his real mother.

Particularly today. After all, once you lost something, it was hard to remember it with anything but fondness...

It had been a day like any other. He had finished his lessons with Angelo, and was in a good mood; he was a large and powerful boy, stronger than some adults even as young as he was, and he took to the battle like a fish to water. Sword lessons with Dosan, while painful if he failed a routine, were diverting and useful. But it was time to take a meal before Winski took him to their manor's study for his history lesson, and lunch with moth—with Arcine was always a pleasant afternoon. He opened the door to the dining room, saying, "Arcine, what has the chef prepared? I am..."

He fell silent, then at what he saw.

Rieltar, stood in the dining hall next to the long oaken table. He was not an overly tall man, nor particularly well-muscled; soft, not fat but not athletic either, the result of a career made in haggling, negotiating, and studying rather than physical labor. It was only in his eyes one could see the danger in the man... like two chips of black ice set against the smooth and soft tan of his skin. His robes were brightly dyed and of excellent make, in shades of green and gold.

The blood clashed with them horribly.

Arcine lay on the floor, her blood soaking into the Calishite carpet, pooling around the red-streaked bruise around her neck. Someone had strangled her, with such force it had pierced the skin and cut into her throat.

'Someone'.

Rieltar still held the bloody garrote wire in his hands.

"Hold him," his foster father said, gesturing lazily at Sarevok, and two armored guards standing post beside the door separated from the wall, forcing the boy to the floor, his arms twisted behind his back. It was pointless; he was too stunned to fight back. All he could do was stare on, gazing at the glassy eyes of his... his _mother... _

"She was disloyal. Taking comfort in the arms of another man. Some common brat who worked the warehouses for the company," Rieltar said. "I had him removed earlier today, but her... my own wife. That required a personal touch."

He stepped forward, running the bloody wire lightly along his adopted son's face. "See that you never betray me. Let her be the example of how it ends, and learn well."

Sarevok did not know how long he sat there, staring at the cooling body.

But that was the moment he knew that someday, Rieltar would die by his hand. He didn't have the power to do it yet, he didn't have anything but impotent rage, but one day, _one day... _

The door opened silently, and Winski Pretorate, the young man's mage tutor, opened the door and looked in, taking in the scene. He did not say a word, or do anything to comfort the boy. That would be counter-productive to the wizard's true aim.

He simply smiled, as the boy sobbed and raged over the corpse of the closest thing he'd had to a mother.

(*)

It was eight years after the massacre at the temple, and two red-haired ten year olds ran through the library.

"Give it _back, Immy!" _the taller of the two snapped. Her legs were longer and she was faster on a straight run, but the girl before her danced past readers, under tables, and between shelves like a cat, while her pursuer stumbled at each new obstacle.

"Mmmmmmmmmmm, it smells so _good_!" the little girl named Immy teased, an impish grin on her face as she brandished her ill-gotten prize of spiced bread. "I can't wait to eat iiiiiiit~"

"Don't! You! _Dare!_" the taller girl screamed, childish fury lending her tone a screech.

"Then you better catch me Seffy! It's still waaaaaaaaaaarm!"

Immy turned a corner, dodging past a junior Chanter performing his daily recitations, spun along the bannister down the stairs...

And ran into something both unyielding and soft, landing on her rear with a pained squeak. "Owwwww... oh. Um. Hi, Gorion..."

The mage sighed in annoyance as the second girl screeched to a half at the edge of the steps, her tiny expression of fury becoming immense embarrassment immediately. "F-father! Oh. Um. Our apologies, for... the noise, and..."

"The noise, and the running, and the knocking of books off the shelves? In a library? A library which, I might add, has _extremely _harsh punishments for damaging the tomes in any way?" Gorion asked dryly.

"... Yes?" the two girls said. Or asked. It wasn't clear.

In the years since that fateful night, he had been proven right in taking the girl in. Sephiria had been an angel to raise, since he had brought her home with him to Candlekeep. It had been a place close to his heart for many years, and he had needed a safe place to raise the girl, so the great library south of Baldur's Gate had been a choice as good as any; it was a veritable fortress, and this place full of serenity and knowledge, he had hoped, would dissuade her... darker impulses. And for those first eight years, it certainly had; the girl was well-mannered, charming, not overly fond of studying or reading unless it was stories of heroes and dragons, but strong and healthy.

Then Imoen had come to join them.

The girls had become fast friends, more like sisters than anything even a few months after meeting. It was just that Imoen seemed terminally allergic to obeying rules or using an indoor voice, and she seemed to draw out the mischievous, childish side of his calm, thoughtful daughter. Which, while not _bad _for a ten-year-old child, _per se_, made things quite a lot worse on her father.

"Now. I assume, Imoen, that this," Gorion said, snatching away the small treat from her and ignoring her squeak of protest. "Was stolen?"

"How come you assume I stole anything?!"

"Because in the five months since you have come here, you have stolen my favorite quill seventeen times, and you cannot write."

"Well, of course not," Imoen said, all trace of outrage vanishing from her face to be replaced with a chipper grin, showing off a few missing teeth. "That's why I need the quill! To practice, y'know?"

Gorion rolled his eyes. "Winthrop needs the beds made and the pans in the kitchen scoured. Run off now."

Her face falling at the mention of her own foster-father, the young girl tromped off sullenly, muttering something under her breath that sounded like, "Buffleheaded mutton-mongering riff-raff."

"Sephiria?" Gorion asked gently.

"... Yes, father?"

"You know better."

She sighed, looking down at her feet in guilt. "Yes, father. It's just that... well, it was _mine_. Parda gave it to me for doing good in my lessons this week, and..."

"I know, my child. I know. It was wrong of Imoen to take it from you. But you must remember," Gorion said, lifting the girl's face to look her in the eyes. "Anger is very often the difference between justice and revenge. And only the former is righteous."

The young girl took a deep breath, and composed her face into a somber expression. "Stop. Breathe. And think. Then, act how you feel is right."

Gorion smiled, and handed the small treat to his daughter. "Good girl. Run along now... Jondalar has sent for you."

The girl blinked. "Jondalar?"

Gorion looked away, smiling lightly. "Well. It seems he think you are old enough to start learning with a wooden sword, and..."

With a squeal of joy, the girl ran down the stairs, taking them two at a time, sprinting to get out of the library as quickly as possible.

"Slow, please!" Gorion called after her, trying not to laugh.

(*)

It was ten years after the massacre at the temple, and Acherai Moonshadow laid the gem down. "Five-hundred gold."

The old fence laughed in the young elf's face. "Half that, kid, and thank me for being generous."

"I am twenty years old, and the diamond is real."

"Twenty's young for an elf, and the diamond is flawed. And don't be acting like you can demand jeweler's market prices from a pawn shop, in the first place!"

"Flawed?! It's the size of a _grape_, stolen right from the personal wagon of that fat old marchioness visiting from Amn. This is a stone of _rare _quality. I refuse to part with it for less than four-hundred."

"Which means it will be harder to sell, sneak thief. And besides, how would you get hold of such a thing? Two-seventy-five."

"Most sneak thieves can't turn literally invisible. Which is why I need _three_-seventy five, and not a copper less. I've expenses."

"Three-fifty, and not a copper _more_."

"Three-fifty _and_ one scroll from the back room," Acherai said. Minor mages needed money too, sometimes, and the old man was a very good pawnbroker. Even weak scrolls of genuine magic fetched solid coin if you could find a buyer.

"Deal," the old man said flatly. "Be happy I like you."

"Always am, old man, always am," Acherai said, rubbing his hands together. Three-hundred and fifty! Less than the gem was worth, but more than he'd expected to get. After all these years, it was really_ time_.

After the massacre at the temple, Acherai had been adrift. Lost, alone, far from his home in Evereska... not that he had anything to return to there. He had no family he knew of besides his mother, and she had been... lost... when the cult came. And so he had made his way east, far from the city they had dragged him to, and vanished. A child could fit into many places, and Acherai was agile and intelligent. Sneaking aboard a caravan was not so hard, and Scornubel was not so terribly far from Baldur's Gate. Vanishing into the the underbelly of the Caravan City was not easy for a child.

But a child who was more agile than any human boy, and had natural talents lending themselves to stealth and spotting hidden doors and compartments, well... he had ways.

The first years had been spent as a pickpocket, something he'd had a natural talent for. The thieves guild had been happy to take him in, then, and he'd graduated to burglary by his fifteenth year. And from there, with more coin flowing in despite guild dues, the final stepping stone had been in sight.

Magecraft.

Acherai was not a stupid elf. He had no idea why those people had taken him, or those other children, down to that hellhole. But he had seen them, killers and warriors, cast into chaos by a single mage, lightning and fire hurled from his fingers. He wanted that power. He _needed _that power. 'Helpless' was not a state of being he _ever _wanted to be again. He was a survivor, and magic would help him stay one.

And so, from his fifteenth summer on, ever scrap of free time, every spare coin, had gone to the Art. Hedge wizards, traveling adventurers, anyone who could teach him _anything_. He was a slightly built boy even for an elf; he would never be more than middling in melee and was a hopeless shot with a bow. But he was also a _smart _boy. His mother had taught him to read, and more advanced books came with practice and, well, theft. He was good at theft.

He had gathered only maybe a half-dozen true spells; they were hard to find and most beyond his ability. But with this addition to his spell book and his coin purse, he had enough to buy passage out of the city, and hopefully enough talent to spend a few years under the master mage who dwelt outside Beregost, south of the Gate. Within striking distance, one might say.

And then, when he had the power and the knowledge he needed...

Well, then he would see about finding out just who exactly had killed his mother, and tried to kill him, and most especially _why_.

And then kill them, of course, if any still lived. Horribly and in lingering agony.

He was a survivor, and one did not survive by letting obvious enemies wander about.

(*)

It was fourteen years after the massacre in the temple, and Sarevok Anchev sat staring in disbelief at the book that Winski had laid before him. "You are _sure_?"

"The dreams. The unusual circumstances of your arrival here. Your... nearly _inhuman _strength and skill with the blade," the old mage said. "I have suspected it for some time, of course, but I was not certain until you came of age, lord Anchev."

"Don't call me that," Sarevok growled. "'Lord Anchev'. Reminds me of Rieltar."

"Of course, master. But as I said... I _am _quite certain. The signs are all there. It explains _everything_, as I'm sure you agree."

"Yes... yes," the boy... no, a man now... rumbled. Adulthood had only added on to Sarevok's already freakish size and strength, and years of training had left him among the most skilled blades in the city. "It explains _more _than everything. But... what to _do _with it? I... could destroy him. The bastard who calls himself my father. I knew that, but... I don't know. I held back. If I let him die of old age or sickness, then his wealth would be mine, I would grow old, be a merchant..."

"I imagine that all seems a bit pointless, now," Winski said softly.

"Yes. _Yes_. Why should I dream of... of gold and trade, when I could have so. Much. _More..._"

"You could," Winski said softly, "have _everything_."

The younger man's eyes raced, scanning up and down the pages, his eyes devouring the words. "I'll need more. I'll need to learn to control it, and... yes, I'll need power. Not just my own. Men. Soldiers. Armies..."

"Worshippers?"

Sarevok looked up at his mentor, and a smile tugged at his lips as something unpleasant entered his eyes. "Yes. Worshippers. And books. Arrange transport to Candlekeep as soon as possible. I need more. I need to find out everything I can. _Everything_."

"As you will, master."

"And tell Tamoko to attend me," he murmured, mentioning the name of his favored lover. "I want to _celebrate_."

(*)

It was seventeen years after the massacre in the Temple, and Sephiria of Candlekeep looked over the steel blade in her hands in awe, the shirt of chainmail on her bed.

"Sir, I..." she began.

"Say nothing. You deserve it and more," Jondalar, her swordmaster, said. "Can't give you much, sadly. Not no fancy rituals, no priests of Torm around these places. Can't make you a proper paladin, but at least can give you a proper sword."

The girl smiled, her nineteenth birthday made glorious indeed. She had never been a book-learning girl, to her father's sadness, but she had taken well to the sword. More than that, though... she had taken well to what was right.

She might not have learned her foster father's knowledge of words, numbers, histories and spells. But she had learned something more important. His morality. His belief in justice. His need to help those who couldn't help themselves. The path of the paladin had been her goal since she was twelve.

Imoen called her stuffy, but not to her face. Sephiria had grown up well, tall and naturally athletic, closer to six feet than five. Further, years of sword-work had left her with muscles in her arms and shoulders that most women could never imagine. With her gold-copper curls and bright blue eyes, the boys and men around the keep were watching her more and more closely... until such time as they saw the muscles beneath that soft skin when she lifted a sword. A pretty face appealed to men, but a pretty face who could punch their teeth out the other side of their head tended to turn them off quickly.

She didn't really mind. Paladins were supposed to be virtuous, after all, so refraining from smashing a guardsman in the jaw for balking at her biceps was good practice.

She lifted the sword, and smiled. She did not even look out the window of her small quarters, to see a tall, broad-shouldered young man holding an old scroll, staring up at her room thoughtfully from the courtyard, and speaking to an older, skeletally thin man in robes.

(*)

It was eighteen years after the massacre at the temple, and Acherai walked out of High Hedge, two years of apprenticeship behind him and a small smile on his lips as he began the walk to Beregost, a spellbook peeking out of his bag. From there, it would be a simple matter of finding a caravan or party heading north, and barely a day's journey to Candlekeep.

You could find information on anything in Candlekeep, and Master Thalantyr had, ah-hem, _'donated' _an appropriate book he could use as an entry fee. The old man would hardly notice the forgery, he was so caught up in being surly to visitors and droning about how awful his adventuring days had been. So wise, and yet _so _easy to fool if you just knew the right buttons. He hadn't even noticed that junior apprentice Melicamp had stolen those bracers he kept in his locked safe! Honestly, you'd think if they were so dangerous he would check on them every so often.

Well, it wasn't as though Melicamp was skilled enough to _do _anything with them, and perhaps if he noticed the bracers gone, it would distract him from checking to make sure all his books were in place.

The young elf walked to Beregost, a tune on his lips and mind dancing with the images of men in armor crafted like skulls. He vaguely wondered how long it would take, among the tomes, to find some sign of them, some hint as to the nature of their bizarre cult.

And then he wondered what they would look like on fire. It had been so long since he'd seen it, after all.

(*)

It was eighteen years after the massacre at the temple, and Sarevok fastened his gauntlets, admiring the vicious serrated spikes that adorned them. The armor had met his every specification. Just wearing it made him feel stronger. More alive.

His flesh was weakness. This armor, black steel adorned with blades and warm with the power of his blood. This was his true flesh now.

"You are certain, milord?" Tamoko asked gently, her lilting voice hesitant as she finished fastening the straps on his breastplate, taking care not to cut herself on the spikes. She would never admit it out loud, of course, but the suit was a bit impractical. She preferred plainer steel. But then, she was not Sarevok. His concerns were... the last few years, not so mundane as her own. It wasn't about practically, it was about being seen as something more than human, and then using that perception to _become _something more than human. The armor was not meant to be practical. Based on the already intimidating armor of the Deathbringer he had spent the years since learning his heritage training to be, and then made even more inhuman and vicious through Sarevok's personal adjustments, you could hardly even call it 'armor' anymore. Armor was made to defend, and this suit was less a tool for defense, and more a tool for inspiring terror.

And through that terror, to forge belief.

"All the signs are there. She is the proper age. The Harper we broke last month confirmed her foster father led the raid on the temple. I thought only I and the elf lived, but it seems one more slipped the net," he let out a low chuckle. "If only I had known then what I know now. I'd have let the Harpers slit the little brat's throat. Still, he'll show up soon enough. They'll _all _show up soon enough."

He turned to Tamoko, and his smile was more like a predator's glare than any expression of joy, but he still pulled her into a fervent kiss. "It's _started. _First blood has been spilled, and I spilled it. And now, all that's left... is to just. Keep. Going.

"Holy War. And it. Will. Be. _Glorious," _Sarevok whispered, letting the slightly limp Tamoko slip from his grasp to clear her head, and picking up his horned helmet. The ogres that had joined them in their camp, simple mercenaries, grunted at the motion.

The helmet slid over his head, completing the armor, and his eyes took on a golden glow, the plate channeling forth the power in his blood. He raised his sword, a mammoth greatsword it would have taken most men both hands to hold. He carried it easily in one.

"Time to _hunt_."

(*)

It was eighteen years after the massacre at the temple, and Sephiria obediently followed her foster father into the rain.

"Come, child. The night shall only get worse, so we must find shelter soon. I will explain everything as soon as there is time," he said soothingly as he led her off the road, and she believed him, even as she huddled under her cloak to keep the rain off the sword and armor he had insisted she wear. It was a sign of her respect for her father that she had even agreed to this... vanishing from the keep in the middle of the night, without even bringing Imoen? But after the events of the day, she could hardly blame him...

She shuddered. The man had come up to her in one of the guardhouses, brandishing a dagger, all smiles and rotting teeth, asking if she was truly Gorion's ward. She hadn't been wearing her armor, but she hadn't needed it... he had lunged, but he was an amateur, and her weapon had better reach. One routine, and... and...

It had taken her less time than she had expected to get the blood off her sword. She had thrown the dress away... it was stained beyond salvation, and besides, she didn't feel comfortable wearing it ever again, after that.

Gorion had been right to take her out of that place.

"Wait," her foster father said, going oddly tense, his voice dropping. "Something's wrong."

He turned to face his child, his eyes narrowed. "Prepare yourself. We are in an ambush."

Two lights in the darkness appeared, walking from between the trees. Eyes. Glowing yellow, and lightning illuminated a figure that seemed to be carved from a single chunk of black steel, coated in razors, a massive sword in his grip, monsters stomping from the darkness on either side of him. He spoke, then, his voice so deep and strong Seph thought she could feel her bones shaking.

"You're perceptive, for an old man..."


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

**(*)**

Sephiria ran, the rain stinging into her eyes almost as much as her tears.

"_You know why I'm here. Hand over your ward and no-one will be hurt. Resist and it will be a waste of your life_."

She ran, her boots slipping in the mud, her cloak soaked through and clinging to her armor, terror and sadness mingling in her eyes.

"_You are a fool if you believe I would trust your benevolence. Step aside, and you and your lackeys shall be unhurt." _

It was Gorion. He was supposed to be there, always. Her earliest memories were of his smile. She had seen his power a hundred times and never seen it fail.

"_I'm sorry that you feel that way, old man."_

Gorion had been amazing. Four against one, Sephiria frozen in terror. She had been sent running from the first attack, fleeing in response to a bolt of burning energy searing a hole in her armor and Gorion's own screams for her to run while he held them back.

She had looked back a dozen times as she fled, saw him hurling lightning and bolts of magic, arrows of flame and acid leaping from his fingers. He was every bit the hero she'd always known him to be. Two ogres, _two_, and neither had gotten near enough to even touch him before being reduced to ash and bloody meat. A powerful cleric, her own spells rolling over the battlefield, and he had rendered her helpless with a gesture.

She had been so certain he would triumph. It was just like every story she had ever read... the noble hero standing firm against the onslaught of evil. She had even stopped, briefly, to watch as he stood against the final attacker, waves light and flame rolling off his fingers like some kind of divine emissary facing a glowing-eyed demon from the Nine Hells.

And then the man in armor had stepped out of the inferno untouched, and cut him down with a single blow.

Sephiria ran. She ran and she didn't look back, sprinting madly into the darkness with no concern for where she would go or what she would do.

Her world was already over.

(*)

Sarevok screamed in fury, hacking away at the body of the fallen mage again and again. His initial blow had taken the man nearly in half, and now he shredded those halves further, desecrating the remains, hammering away until he could not recognize it as a person.

He wasn't angry at the dead mage. He was angry at _himself. _He had gotten caught up in the moment, in the electric thrill of battle. The scent of burning flesh in the air, the blood rushing in his ears, the lightning flashing in the sky as his foe's attacks washed off his divine strength like water off a rock. He had faced battle before, but nothing like _this_. The mage had slain two powerful beasts with a gesture, suppressed Tamoko's own powerful spells without visible effort. And yet, Sarevok had destroyed him like he was a helpless child. It had been glorious, everything he had ever dreamed, a worth sacrifice to his impending divinity.

It had also, he thought as the thrill of murder faded from his mind to be replaced by seething fury and the awareness that his _true _quarry was gone, been a _waste of gods-damned time. _

The girl was gone. Vanished into the night, and the storm only getting worse. Tamoko was magically contained in a shimmering sphere of light, and he had no way to free her, even his blade bouncing off harmlessly. Even if he knew which way the child had run, with the forest floor rapidly turning to mud he could hardly hope to catch her on foot in full plate.

He fought the urge to scream at his own foolishness, and instead turned to storm back to camp, leaving Tamoko behind, trapped inside the shimmering sphere. She could find her own way back...

And the way he was feeling now, if she tried to speak to him, he'd likely murder her on the spot.

(*)

"Seems a lotta trouble for some books, is all I'm sayin'," the dwarf said flatly.

"It's not for some books," the elf said with a touch of impatience in his voice. "It's for _the _books. All the books. Candlekeep has more tomes and records than anywhere else in Faerun. If anyone has data on the cult I'm seeking, it will be the monks there."

"And ye couldn't wait until the rain stopped, at the least?"

"Kagain, I just spent four hours out of my way looking for your damn caravan, only to have you give up and declare yourself a fugitive the second we found it. You agreed to escort me to Candlekeep in exchange. If a little rain is too much for you to keep up your end of the bargain, then you shouldn't have made the bargain to begin with."

"Oh, well, I'm _sorry _I took away time from his lordship's questin'," Kagain sneered, his mail and axe clinking damply beneath his soaked cloak. "But seein' as we're half drowned out here to help with the little elfling's royal mission, I think I've a _right _to be a tad bitter."

Acherai sighed. "Gods above, we're not actually doing the 'elf vs. dwarf' thing? You live in a hole, I'm a tree-hugger, we're all quite horrible. _Shut your mouth_. I swear, I should have ditched you and come alone."

"You'd still have me!" said the third, equally soaked figure lagging behind the other two in the storm.

"You don't count as a person, Garrick. I consider you more like a pack mule that can sing."

"Well, that's a bit rude!"

"Rude," Kagain interjected, "Was you hirin' us to work for yer crazy witch woman, and her tryin' to kill us for asking too many questions."

"On the plus side, I did get this new walking stick," Acherai said cheerfully, admiring the enchanted quarterstaff he'd plucked off the woman's corpse. "Magic, too, which counters the iron poisoning going around. And we _did _get the money in the end."

"Bah, and I got what for it all?!"

"A third cut of the gold."

"... Right, well, guess that's okay, then," Kagain admitted. "Bard can live."

"You were planning to kill me?!" Garrick wailed.

"Only because we don't like you," Acherai said helpfully. "But if you'll both be so kind as to be silent? I think we're nearly th-"

Something large, and hard as metal, and smelling... oddly nice, considering, leaped out of the woods and slammed into the young elf. He had killed three people in his life, one less than a day ago, and as a result liked to think of himself as something of a veteran at such things, and so reacted in a perfectly rational and logical way.

"_Bloody Hells what the blazes get it off kill it kill it..." _

"_Please no I'm sorry he's after me we have to run!" _the horror said in response, which Acherai had to admit was _not _what he'd been expecting to hear. Disentangling himself, the elf looked at the 'attacker'.

_Hell-o._

She was, frankly, gorgeous. Young... it was always hard to judge with humans, but he'd place her as younger than him. When you were from a species that was fully grown, physically, by the teenage years, yet not considered _emotionally _mature until your first century, it became a bit rough to pick up the nuances. Long red hair, soaked with rain but still rather vibrant, strong blue eyes, soft, pale skin, a bit tall for him but hardly a deal-breaker...

He put on his best smile and patted her on the shoulder, locking eyes with her. She was horrified. He could work with horrified. "Hold, miss. My apologies for stepping into your path, but please, who is pursuing you...?"

"Are you deaf? He could be right behind me!" the woman shrieked in a panic, trying to rise to her feet and slipping in the mud to crash down onto her chest, the sound revealing without seeing that there was some kind of metal armor under her cloak. "Oh Gods... oh sweet Torm, mercy..."

Ugh. One of _those _then. You almost never got an affectionate girl swearing to the god of loyalty and righteousness. Still, in a for a copper, in for a gold. "Miss, I'm afraid we can't do much to help if we know not the problem. Calm, and speak."

"Leave th' brat."

"Dwarf! Stop! Helping!" Acherai hissed. Putting a smile back on he stroked the girl's face, pushing the hair out of her eyes. "Please ignore my companions, they are idiots. Take a deep breath and try to stay calm while I get you out of the rain and get a fire going..."

"No fire," the girl said, gasping in several lungfuls of air. She was still shaking, but the wide-eyed terror was slowly beginning to give way to more reasoning fear and, he noticed, quite a lot of sadness. "Just... shelter. We can't give off any sign where we are. I'll explain everything when we get somewhere out of the storm."

(*)

Sephiria sat, sipping from a canteen and nibbling on a trail biscuit as she related her tale to the strange party in the midst of a small copse of trees that hid a tent and kept the rain and wind away. She shivered with cold and shock as she told of them of the ogres, the dark priest, and most of all, the man in the black armor and his inhuman power.

The reactions she got were not quite what she had expected.

"Oh _my _it sounds rather dreadful," the young human who didn't seem to have much of an idea of anything that was going on around him. "I wonder if I should be writing it down."

"Not our problem," said the dwarf flatly. "Send the brat away an' let's continue on our road."

The elf who had been looking at her like she was a piece of meat, however, suddenly became very quiet and serious. His eyes had been roaming over her face and body since they'd met, and she _knew _that stare... it usually ended as soon as they saw her lift something larger than herself, but she didn't much care for it either way. Now, though, he was more somber than the dwarf. "Girl," he murmured. "Describe, him, please. Particularly the armor he wore."

She shuddered. She had seen it only in flashes of lightning and explosions of magic, and yet each detail was burned into her mind. "He was tall. Taller than me by a head, at the least, though some of it was the horns on his helm. It was all black, and... _vicious. _Can't think of a better word. Spikes and blades all over it."

"Did he carry a broadsword? Was the helmet shaped like a skull?" he asked urgently. "_Think." _

"I... yes, and no. The helmet was shaped like... the mouth of some monster. The fangs hid his face," she said, her tone a bit irritated. As if she wasn't getting to that! "Though... there _was _a skull. A symbol. On his chest."

"A skull, and... anything else?" Acherai whispered.

"Something encircling it. I couldn't get a close look at them, but..."

"Drops of liquid?" he asked. "Tears, maybe, or blood."

"... I think so," she said, eyes widening. "How did you know that..."

Acherai smiled at her, a predatory grin. "Oh, yes. This is _perfect_. Just as I come for them, they're coming out of the woodwork...! Kagain and... um... _you." _

"Garrick!"

"I don't care! We have a new recruit," he said, his eyes locked on the young pseudo-paladin. "Girl. We're on our way to Candlekeep as we speak, but once we leave, you're coming with us. Do you have a problem with that?"

"... What are you _talking _about?" she asked.

"The man who killed your father is connected to something I've been meaning to look into for a long time. He's after you, and that means when he makes his second attempt, he'll find _me_," Acherai said, his eyes practically glowing. "But this time you'll be ready. _We'll _be ready. I have a book to get us into the Keep. If there's anything in there about this man and his organization, we'll find it. That symbol _has _to be important, and from there, who knows? Oh, we have so many _opportunities!"_

Sephiria started at him, her eyes narrowed. She hadn't _entirely_ bought his act of kindness... no man who genuinely meant you well spent as much time focusing below your neck as he had. But now, there was something... _wrong _in his voice.

She shivered, and fought down a yawn. On the other hand, she might not have been in the best position to judge anyone. "We... can't go to Candlekeep..." she murmured, the fatigue starting to catch up with her finally. She smacked herself lightly on the cheeks, and continued, "Assassin. He attacked me in the keep itself. Fought like a fool, but... he proved this man has agents in Candlekeep. If someone starts researching him there, he'll find out. It's not safe."

Acherai turned to her, frustration burning in his eyes... but also triumph. "You said 'we'."

Sephiria sighed. "I'm alone. I've no supplies, no horse, no aid. You're... strange, but if you meant me harm you'd have an easy enough time inflicting it. For the moment, we might as well travel together... though I'm not sure where we'd go."

"Adventuring?" Acherai suggested.

She raised an eyebrow.

"I'm _serious_. This man who attacked you is strong, yes? So we need power, and quickly. There's few better ways," Acherai said. "We travel. And in so doing, we grow stronger from the conflict, and present ourselves as a target to our friend in the armor. And when he finds you again, well... you get your revenge. And I get what I want. Mutual benefit is the backbone of cooperation, is it not?"

Sephiria winced, looking from the elf's cool, hungry eyes to the dwarf's gruff, uncaring ones. The young man didn't seem so bad, but those two... put her on edge. Particularly the elf. He was a handsome one, slender and agile, with black hair nearly as long as hers and shining, dark eyes. And he had only been friendly to her, if in a bit of an odd way. But...

She couldn't shake it. Something was _wrong _about him. There was just no other word for it.

And yet...

In comparing him to the thought of facing that... _monster _again, all alone...

She held out her hand, and he shook it firmly. "It is," she answered to his question. "Sephiria of Candlekeep. We've an accord?"

"Acherai Moonshadow, of nowhere worth mentioning. We've an accord _indeed._"

She wrinkled her nose. "The name sounds fake."

"The name _is _fake_. _Chose it when I was ten."

She giggled a little at that, even as the fading adrenaline left a weariness in her that was rapidly proving impossible to resist. "Yes it... it sounds like it... … hehehe. Imoen would like you..."

With that thought drifting into her head and a mostly dry blanket around her shoulders, she closed her eyes, thinking of Imoen and how she could possibly tell the girl all that had happened... and how grateful she'd be for the chance to try. She didn't know if she'd see the girl ever again, if she'd ever again be safe in Candlekeep, if her own new 'companions' would slit her throat while she slept.

Nothing was certain in the world, other than how cold it all was.

She slept as best she could, and she didn't dream. Thank the gods for small favors.

(*)

Imoen tried not to scream as she looked over the site.

It wasn't that she was _misbehaving_, per se. Oh, she knew Winthrop would have her pretty little head on one of his ugly trays if he knew she'd run off like this. But he had never _technically _told her not to abandon Candlekeep and go off after Sephiria and Gorion, so theoretically speaking she wasn't _not _allowed to do it. So if he punished her for it when next they crossed paths, well, that was just 'ol Puffguts Winthrop being unreasonable again.

But the way she saw it, she had a moral imperative. Seffy was family, right? Or at least, the closest thing to family that Imoen had. They'd grown up together, played together, chased each other around half the keep (Imoen won), wrestled over dessert (Seffy won, though Imoen lied and told people it was a draw. And that Seffy started it. And that there was a curse on Winthrop's inn that would kill them if they didn't pay an extra silver to the girl who did their turn-down service in the mornings... that last one didn't have much to do with Seffy, it was just a lie Imoen told a lot). Why, Imoen had once put a live weasel into Seffy's bed just to see what would happen when she found it. And the other girl _hadn't _beaten her to death for it!

That was more important than blood, in Imoen's mind. If a girl didn't kill you over a live weasel tearing up all her unmentionables, than she was family in all the ways that truly mattered.

And so she had dolled up the old bow Winthrop'd bought her for shooting rats (she was a better at keeping 'em out than any cat, and he put them in the stew for the people staying in the cheap rooms), and snuck out. She figured she could make it as an adventurer well enough... she was a good shot, she could pick a lock, she was devilishly beautiful. Gorion would hardly mind her tagging along. And so her first steps into the outside world in over ten years had begun with a song in her heart and a spring in her step.

This had lasted until she found Gorion.

The remains were... were bad. It was all bad. Imoen hadn't always lived in Candlekeep, and she'd seen some bad things in her life. But this wasn't death, this was... Mask's bloody knife, it was like someone had just _ripped _him...

She stepped in something. Looking down, she saw it was an ear. Not Gorion's thank the gods, unless he had secretly been green with ears the size of her hand, but... well, then.

She turned and ran into the bushes, losing her breakfast in the first one she found. Her heaving coughs rang out through the forest, and she had just enough presence of mind to hope there was nothing about with large fangs and claws to go about eating her at the moment. She could still see Candlekeep in the distance, for crying out loud. Ending her adventures in a wolf's belly before she even got out of sight of home would be a just... just _very undignified. _

After a few minutes of that, Imoen pulled her head together and started to think of things. Most people didn't spot it of her, given a general lack of common sense and fondness for sweets that sometimes overruled her judgment, but Imoen was a smart girl, with a thief's eye for detail. And she had seen several dead bodies in that clearing...

And not one of them a girl.

Gorion was gone. He was dead. She was sad, but there was nothing to be done about it and right now the important thing was finding Sephiria. The problem became where to _look_. She didn't know where the girl might have run off to. Assuming she hadn't just been taken by whoever had done... _this _to Gorion. Imoen had scouted the area a bit and found nothing much, so Sephiria may have moved on.

Imoen's mind jumped back to the letter on Gorion's desk that she had accidentally read three times, the one that had started this whole silly mess. It hadn't been signed, but it had advised Gorion leave the keep, something about moving targets being harder to hit...

And Khalid and Jaheira, in the Friendly Arm Inn. Imoen wasn't a master of maps, but she knew where the inn was, she'd made supply runs there with Winthrop more than once when a caravan got delayed in bringing food and spices to Candlekeep. So all she had to do was head there! She could travel fast off the roads, keeping out of sight, and the Arm would be a safe place to wait. Even if she didn't find Seph there, she'd find Gorion's friends. Yeah, this was the _perfect _plan!

She slid off into the woods, smiling to herself over her own cleverness.

About three minutes later, four figures walked into the clearing.

"We are _wastin' _our time," Kagain snapped. "If we're really going through with this daft plan of running as adventurers, we need to be working on finding an employer. Sellswords need someone to buy 'em, and not gonna find one in the woods."

"Oh, Kagain. This is important too! Just think of the tale it will make!" Garrick said. "You can't have a hero who doesn't care about her own family."

"This is not a _story, _idiot."

"Well of course not, I haven't _written _it yet. But it's going to be a very good one! And much less, well, _evil _than Silke's."

Acherai sighed, even as Sephiria began to gather together stones. "I _do _apologize for them. Particularly the bard. Kagain is at least rather good with an axe, but Garrick is... well, mostly useful for carrying things I don't feel like carrying. I confess I was perhaps too quick to take on allies in Beregost. He had a crossbow, he seemed valid. Feel free to toss him aside as soon as someone more useful comes along."

"... how rude," Garrick whimpered.

Kagain narrowed his eyes. "And another thing. Why is _she _suddenly in command, elf? You were bad enough, but the whelp's not even bloodied."

"So that bit about her fighting off assassins in Candlekeep just went right over your head, then? Besides, she is in command because if we are trying to lure in someone seeking her," Acherai murmured softly enough for the girl to not hear him over her work, "then it makes rather a lot of sense to have our party _act like her_. Worry not, I'll have her ear the whole of the journey. You'll make a profit."

"I had _best._"

Sephiria ignored them, gathering up stones. It wasn't much. It was nothing. Gorion had given her a warm bed and meals for her whole life, taught her everything of true value she knew. She owed him her life, in a very real sense; not for saving it, but for teaching how to make it a life worth saving.

Acherai had called it revenge. Gorion wouldn't want that. But it was the only thing that made sense, and... it just...

_Stop. Breathe. And think. And then do what feels right. _Of all the lessons that her father had taught her, that was the most important one, the key to everything else. The question, then, was: what felt right?

She was a faithful servant of Torm. Er, well, she _would _be when she found a real priest to take her vows. She shouldn't _take _revenge.

More importantly, Gorion wouldn't _want_ her to seek revenge. But what about justice? It wasn't the same thing, no matter how many people tended to call it that. This man, this... _thing_. He had murdered her father. Tried to kidnap her. Consorted with ogres, monsters known for killing, raping, and pillaging at will. So, then... as a paladin...

Wasn't stopping him the right thing to do?

She placed the last stone on the cairn she was building for Gorion, and looked down on it sadly. It didn't feel quite right. How could it? She had just _buried _her father's flayed _corpse _beneath a pile of stones_, _she suspected that nothing would feel _right _for a long, long time.

But it _did _feel like closure.

"Torm the true, lord of justice, light, and strength, guide this soul on its path," she said softly, kneeling over the cairn. "Guard him faithfully on his path to his eternal reward in the hands of whatever god may have him."

She stood, and turned to her companions. They were _not _the ideal... but she had work to do, and they were better than nothing.

"Let's move on," she said softly, adjusting her sword and shifting her cloak behind her. "We have work to do."


	4. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

**(*)**

"I'm not sure about this," Sephiria said, looking rather guiltily at the road north. "My father was quite specific. His friends would be waiting at the Friendly Arm..."

"I'm sure they are. As will be someone waiting to kill you," Acherai said, stepping onto the road back to Beregost.

"You don't _know _that."

"No, but I suspect, and suspicion is good enough. You have been targeted by an unusually powerful individual whom we have reason to believe is connected to a fairly large organization. You have fought off an assassin in your own home, implying a bounty is clearly on your head at this point. The Friendly Arm is the nearest population center to Candlekeep and bounty hunters would draw no attention there, making it a superb spot to start a hunt. Therefore, it is best to avoid it as we are _not _prepared for battle."

Kagain shrugged. "Always prepared."

"The axe was a hint, yes. But our dear girl..."

Sephiria winced. "Please don't call me that."

"Needs outfitting. Thunderhammer's reputation is impeccable, worry not. We'll have you ready and armored in something better than decade-old chain by the end of tomorrow. And in the meantime, Beregost is larger than the Friendly Arm, has a half-dozen potential inns to keep track of for a party, and a lot more girls to look at while they're hunting for you. We'll slip in, rest and resupply, and hire a messenger to contact your friends and tell _them _to find _us_.

"Trust me," Acherai said as Beregost appeared in the distance. "Only someone with the common sense of a gnat would head to the Friendly Arm _now_."

(*)

Imoen smiled, heading into the Friendly Arm.

It was an impressive structure, an old fortress that had once been owned by an evil such-and-such until it was cleaned out by blah blah blah and renovated to be a gaaaaaaaaaaaah.

Imoen was not a history buff. Tales of evil and derring-do were more Seffy's thing. Though she studied harder, she preferred practical knowledge; values of gems in barter, how to get past the second set of tumblers on a Turmish double latch-lock, signs to determine someone was genuinely asleep as opposed to merely dozing or even faking. All totally unrelated to that guy in the upper floor of the inn who had been flaunting his star-sapphire ring, of of course. Imoen was just an academic spirit.

Setting a course for the main building of the inn, she whistled a little tune and made her way up the steps, stopping only briefly to nod at a man in robes who was studying her oddly closely. She was, after all, gorgeous. Who _wouldn't _stare?

Of course, this particular man was not staring at Imoen's admittedly pretty face so much as her short-cut, reddish-brown hair.

"Hi, friend. I've not seen here before today," the man said, stepping into the girl's path. He was a plain man; not much taller than Imoen, with a short black beard and oddly long fingers on his hands. He wore black robes, with a green outline, and his eyes were two empty, heartless chips of ice that did not match his smile at _all_. He seemed to exude a light air of menace with every motion, despite being in most ways unremarkable. "May I ask what brings you the Friendly Arm?"

Imoen stepped gracefully around him, said "Nope!" and walked toward the door, totally ignoring the creepy guy.

The man in the robe was silent for several long seconds, before saying, "Red-haired girl of twenty. Ward of Candlekeep. Meets the description, unseasoned enough to be born in a library. And besides, you are a little_ brat_."

"Eh...?" Imoen asked turning to face the man again.

His fingers were moving in an intricate pattern, a pale green-blue glow dancing between them as he muttered something under his breath. Imoen had lived in a magical library for half her life, and while she had not hung out around Gorion quite so much as Seffy, she knew a spell when she saw one. Her bow wasn't drawn and she had no arrows nocked, and her dagger was still in her damn pack. She hadn't thought she would need it, she wasn't supposed to _fight_. She was the brains of the operation, whenever she found an operation to be the brains of.

The man's chanting was reaching a high point, the mystical light in his hands glowing more brilliantly. Imoen was not terribly familiar with magical combat, but she suspected he was about to kill her.

So, acting mostly on instinct, she reached out her hand and pushed him down the steps.

It wasn't the most dignified of battle tactics. It didn't have a whole lot of flash or style, she would freely admit that. She didn't even have a good one-liner. But what she _did _have was twenty or thirty solid stone steps, roughly hewn and very hard. The mage-assassin let out an undignified squawk as he tumbled down them, followed by a few very loud cracks as parts of him that were not as hard as stone impacted with stairs that were _exactly_ as hard as stone. He landed on the grass in a crumpled heap of cloth and oddly angled limbs, and he did not move.

Imoen gingerly walked down the stairs and poked him with her foot a few times. He did not move. Or appear to breathe.

_So, _Imoen thought. _Does this count as adventuring? What comes next, then? Do I loot him? Am I allowed to loot him if it was the middle of an inn? I think I should get his stuff, on account of him calling me a brat. Rude, that was. _

"Miss...?" a guard asked, snapping her out of her reverie.

"_It wasn't me I didn't do it you have the wrong girl!" _Imoen shrieked.

"No fears, miss. Old Tarnesh has... _had..._ a dark reputation, and even if he did not, Gregor saw his castings," the man said, gesturing to another guard. "You acted in self-defense, and could hardly be blamed for his point of attack being foolish."

"... Right. Because... it was all an accident!" Imoen said, a huge, guilty smile on her face as she lied through teeth.

_Wait... it _was _all an accident. Why do I sound guilty? _

"He asked who I was. Then he attacked me when I wouldn't answer. I don't know why," Imoen said, a bit more naturally. "I-I was just here to meet some friends. Creepy, huh?"

The man nodded, and smiled in a manner he clearly hoped was reassuring, though at the moment Imoen was hardly paying attention to him, her mind going back to run over the events in her head once more. 'Red-haired girl of twenty'. Technically, it fit her, but her hair, while tinged enough with crimson to count as red, was just as easily described as brown (though she'd occasionally pondered dying it pink, just to see the look on Puffgut's face). If someone was _really _after her, why wouldn't they have made sure to give out a better description?

Candlekeep, however, had more than one ward. And Sephiria's hair was a shining, almost metallic red that could hardly be mistaken for any other color. She had assumed that the attackers were after Gorion, what with him being a hero and a wizard and old enough to have enemies and stuff. But people looking for the red-haired twenty-year-old _girl_ from Candlekeep...

Imoen knelt down by the body, sighing. "Weird. Why would anyone ever go after me? I'm just a totally normal and in no way odd girl. And alas, the heartless killer is himself dead, and can no longer answer any of my questions! Woe is me, woe is _me_! There shall be no comfort, alas. I am lost indeed!"

Gregor the guard knelt beside her, patting her on the shoulder. "Come inside, lass. We'll get you a hot meal and help you find your friends. Everything will be all right."

Discretely pocketing the scrolls she had slipped out of the man's robes, Imoen smiled up at the guard. "Why, I bet it will be."

(*)

Sephiria sighed, looking down at the shiny plates of the splint mail. "I can't afford this. It must be a hundred gold, at the least."

"Given that your health and wellness is now our concern, taking it out of party funds is more than tolerable. Your share of the first successful venture can go to paying for it, if you prefer," Acherai said.

"Assumin' we ever _have one," _Kagain grumbled. "Time is gold, and we haven't enough of either to be wastin' time armoring the whelp."

"Relax, dwarf. I've a lead on a solid mission that will make us back the cost of the armor fifty times over, and our dear little maiden-"

"_Please _stop calling me such terms of endearment. I am in no way dear, nor yours," Sephiria said, taking the armor to the smith to finish her fitting and make payment.

"-shall be integral to it," Acherai finished, unfurling a bounty poster. "A murderer, believed to be haunting the forests to the southwest. The cleric Bassilus, wanted by the Church of Lathander. A bounty of five _thousand _gold, a small fortune! The backbone of a future adventuring party, more than certainly."

"Don't much care fer the lightbringers. An' they don't care much for anyone what isn't all full of righteousness an' fluffy feelings," Kagain muttered, though the mention of 'five thousand gold' had brought some visible cheer to his face.

"Indeed they do not, which is why our dear paladin-to-be will be the one to claim the reward," Acherai whispered. "It's perfect. She has everything. Beauty, charm, an unflinching morality. All the things the masses _adore_. You see, my dear little mercenary friend, _being _a hero is a harsh and pointless life that leads only to an early grave. But _appearing _to be a hero is simple indeed."

He smiled, and Kagain was reminded of nothing so much as a snake about to strike. "Our darling little girl," he whispered, "will be the face of the group. People will know and love her for the hero she is, and enemies seeking her will, once her fame grows, find her quickly and die horribly as our own power grows to meet and exceed them. And meanwhile, _we _will make sure her unflinching sense of goodness is aimed at the missions that give us the greatest profit. Is this acceptable, my little. Greedy. Friend?"

Kagain blinked a few times, before smiling wickedly. "Aye. Mayhaps yer not as hopeless as I'd thought, elf."

Sephiria walked back to them, her newly purchased armor shining and her hands shifting her sword belt again. "I am prepared to continue. Did Garrick secure us a room?"

"We assume such, but it's rather hard to be certain with him. On the one hand he did go to the Jovial Juggler, but on the other the man _is _a bit pathetic. Kagain, if you don't mind checking to make sure the team pet didn't ruin our night?"

Sephiria sighed as Kagain walked off. "You shouldn't be so hard on him. He's not precisely wise, but he means well. At least, more well than the dwarf."

"There's no reason to _not _be hard on him. He's a buffoon. Treating a buffoon brutally is one of painfully few ways to teach him the error of his ways."

"You treat me just fine. I know you're not that harsh to everyone."

"You're exceptional. Exceptional people should be treated exceptionally, and buffoons should be treated like buffoons," Acherai said with a shrug. "That is the way of the world. If someone is useful and performs well, then effort should be made to make them happy. If someone is an idiot, then efforts should be made to hone them into something useful. People need to be treated how they _deserve _to be treated."

Sephiria sighed. "I know I'm not very worldly, but that seems cold to me."

"Is it that different from the code of Torm? If a man obeys the law, he is treated well. If he breaks it, he is punished," Acherai said.

"Exactly. If a man is loyal, brave, and true... like Garrick... then he should be judged and treated well. Even if he is lacking in other departments. It's the heart that counts more than anything."

Acherai blinked, before chuckling lightly. "Well. If you want to see him as brave and loyal, you're welcome to, I suppose. But frankly, I'm not certain it's accurate at all. Still, he may have succeeded at finding an inn room. Tomorrow, we head to our first _true _quest. And while we seek out a dangerous murderer... a task even you can hardly disagree with!... a traveler heading north will accept a small fee to deliver a message for you, to let your father's friends know plans have changed. Have you objections, dear girl?"

Sephiria pondered it. "Don't call me 'dear'."

(*)

"That's definitely them," the pale man in the hood said, twisting a ring on his finger as he stared out the window of the Red Sheaf Inn at the small party walking past the inn out of Taerom Thunderhammer's smithy. "They never used her name, but she's wary of hunters and she matches the description."

"My god's will shines down on all who walk the killer's path. The Black Sun would not have guided us wrong in this matter," the woman seated in the corner of the room said softly, her eyes closed in meditation. A helmet and a wickedly spiked club of some dark, polished wood sat by her side.

"Woman creeps me out, Nimbul," the final inhabitant of the room, a red-bearded dwarf, whispered to the man at the window. "Killing a girl for money, that's just business. Cyricists... they get off on it."

"If Neira wants to sacrifice her share of the reward to Cyric, that's her business," Nimbul said softly. "She got us to within range of our target when simple hunting did nothing of the sort. And now, we know where they're going."

"Bassilus. Big name bounty for amateurs."

Nimbul shrugged. "The girl has a bounty of her own for a reason, Karlat, and her party seems skilled. But no worries... we follow them. We let them fight it out. Whichever side wins, we kill them and claim _both _bounties. That is, if our resident lady of Cyric has no problem with the mad cleric's death? I believe he's part of the same 'team' you are, for lack of a better term."

Neira smiled, opening her hands to reveal an iron carving of a black sun surrounding a grinning skull in her palms. "The Black Sun is wise, my friends. If a man is too weak to prevent his own death, that man was too weak to deserve his life in the first place."

Karlat smiled. "Y'know, every once in awhile you death-worshipers do manage to make sense."

(*)

The soup was _awesome_.

Imoen gobbled it down like a woman starving, devouring chunks of meat and boiled vegetable alike without actually chewing on them. "Smmm mfmmffmf mmmmmfffmmm mmmmmm!" Imoen said cheerfully.

"Are we... _certain _this is the girl, Khalid?" Jaheira asked doubtfully, watching the display.

"W-we can hardly claim otherwise d-dear. She m-matches the description, d-doesn't she? S-s-sort of."

The two adventurers had been, as they'd promised in their letter, waiting in the Inn for Gorion and his ward to arrive. What they had gotten was... well. Imoen.

"'S true!" Imoen said between bites, picking up a small loaf of bread. "'m from Candlekeep *CHOMP* 'n me n' Gorion were *MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH* jus' like fam'ly *SLUUUUUUUUUUUUURP*"

"You... were his ward, then?" Jaheira asked doubtfully. Truthfully it wasn't that the girl did not _completely _fail to resemble the descriptions Gorion had given of her. She was the right age, fit and healthy, and... _somewhat _possessed of the crimson mane they had been led to expect. Somehow, though, Jaheira had been led to expect someone possibly a bit taller.

"MUNCH MUNCH MUNCH SLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURP."

And more dignified. "Child, you have had your meal. We _must _discuss the situation further. I do not know how much Gorion told you, but we were to take you in should anything happen to your guardian. We were his close friends, and well equipped to take up..."

"NOM CHOMP GULP."

"... your protection," Jaheira finished in distaste, looking at a chunk of carrot that had slipped from the girl's spoon to splatter on the table. "But I fear we must do it on the road, for we have responsibilities of our own to attend to."

Imoen, who was not even remotely Gorion's ward and _really _had no business acting as such, but didn't wanna be kicked out on the road for saying, 'I'm not the girl you're looking for but I _swear _I know her,' swallowed her latest mouthful and said, "Eeeeh? But nothin' personal, but I thought we'd kinda like... stay here."

"... Girl this is an _inn_. Nobody lives here. And more, I fear troubles stir to the south and Khalid and I have been asked by certain... associates of ours to investigate problems they are having. You are aware of the iron mines of Nashkel to the south?"

Imoen pondered it. Unlike Seffy, who's interactions with people tended to be offering to do them favors and shelling out claims of protection, while they slowly fell into that weird courtly-love thing people had with paladins, Imoen was an easygoing girl who thrived on small talk. Stories of the outside world were like sugar to her. "Um, as I recall, there's talk that the iron comin' from them is weaker than it should be? That's half the reason for the big shortage of late."

Jaheira nodded sharply, and Imoen suspected that was the closest she would get to approval. "Indeed. The supply of new iron into the region is weak and tainted, and bandits and highwaymen prowl the countryside stealing the metal still viable. As a result, iron, the lifesblood of the region, is in dangerously short supply."

"O-o-our employers," Khalid said, "W-wish us to look into the matter. W-we're acquainted with the mayor of Nashkel, you s-see. W-we can get into the mines and d-determine if foul play i-i-is involved."

Imoen's eyes widened. "Oooooh, so you're gonna be heroes! I can do that. When do we leave?"

"... You are rather more _enthusiastic _than expected, child." Jaheira said, her tone indicating she was trying to contain an enormously disapproving speech for the sake of the clearly traumatized young woman.

"Well, Seffy is _totally _crazy about doing hero stuff, she's gonna show up there," Imoen said cheerfully.

"... Excuse me?"

"Nothing," Imoen said. "Can I have another bowl of this? It's amazing stuff! The chefs are _so _much better than they were at Candlek-"

Jaheira narrowed her eyes, and Imoen had the uncomfortable feeling that if she had been able to, she'd have set the younger girl on fire with her mind.

"On the other hand," Imoen said quickly, "Perhaps I should order something I can eat on the road instead."

"Better! We leave within the hour. We've daylight to burn yet, and I want to make a few hours journey before we set up camp," Jaheira said. "Finish your meal, I'll handle supplies. You'll need arrows and the like, and some armor would not be amiss. Nothing too heavy, I suspect? Leather should be fine. Khalid, stay with the girl."

"D-dear, mayhaps we should stay the night? T-the girl must be tired, and..."

Jaheira narrowed her eyes again.

"... a-and I am certain fresh air would d-d-do her a world of good."

Jaheira smiled. "You ever know my heart. I'll return soon."

As she left, Imoen and Khalid watched her head up to the counter and begin doing something at the proprietor, Bentley Mirrorshade, that could only be described as the bastard child of haggling and just shouting.

"Your wife is kinda scary, huh Mr. Khally?" Imoen said.

"I-in a good way, I have always thought," Khalid said diplomatically.

Jaheira had _amazing _hearing.


	5. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

**(*)**

"I have a question," Sephiria said as they marched through the wilderness, brushing aside a thornbush with her armored hand. "If this murderer is as foul as you claim, and has such a bounty, how is it that nobody has hunted him down before now?"

"Presumably because he keeps killing them," Acherai said. "The man is a cleric, if the bounty notice is accurate, and Cyric is said to favor madmen and murderers, of which he is both. His power is likely to be considerable."

Sephiria grimaced. "You didn't mention he was a Cyricist."

"I didn't think it would be a _problem_. You are a paladin, after all. Of Torm, no less! The Prince of Lies and your deity get along like... well, like Garrick and dignity."

"How _rude_!" Garrick murmured.

"Garrick, you should stand up for yourself more. Don't let him walk all over you," Sephiria said.

"Hm? Oh, no, no. He's actually quite better than my previous employer!" Garrick said. "For one, he has not tried to kill me yet. And for second, he is a _far _more interesting story."

"Eh?" 

"Oh, you're part of it too! Why, I may not be a terribly _good _bard, but even I can spot the beginnings of a great tale from heroes in the making! Why, if I manage to not die and am able to write a proper ballad about it, I expect I shall be _very _well-received in taverns up and down the Coast! And really, is that not what life is about?"

"... Free ale and lodgings?"

"Exactly!" Garrick said to Sephiria's increasingly perturbed expression as she continued to push forward through the brush.

"Told you so," Acherai whispered into her ear.

"Both of ya, shut it," Kagain muttered. "I think we're gettin' close."

"Hm? We've only been walking a few hours, how do you..."

"Because I don't hear any animals," the dwarf whispered harshly, motioning again for the group to quiet down. "And I _do _smell something. Take a whiff."

Blinking in confusion, Acherai and Sephiria stopped and, in unison, inhaled deeply. Almost identical somber expressions clouded their faces immediately.

"Still distant, but..." Acherai began.

"Rot," Sephiria whispered. "And there's no wind, so it can't be too far away."

Acherai smiled. "I confess to a certain giddiness now that we're this close. This is where it all comes together for us!"

"Yeah, and if we get ate by zombies, it's where it all comes apart too," Kagain snapped. "Stay calm and stay quiet. No sayin' where the bastard is."

Sephiria nodded once, and drew her sword, the two-handed war-sword that was her last memento of Candlekeep. Not a fancy blade, and nothing magical about it, unlike the metal staff Acherai had been walking with or the battleax at Kagain's hip. But it _was _a solid blade, familiar to her, and while it might not have been elaborate, it was perfectly forged, predated the iron crisis, and a half-dozen crushed training dummies over the year since she'd gotten it suggested it was bloody efficient at destroying things.

_Torm, give me strength to strike in your name, _she thought, sending a silent prayer to her god as she steeled her mind for her first true battle.

She wasn't sure of much, lately, but she felt that it could hardly be the wrong thing to do.

(*)

To the north, in the Friendly Arm Inn, a young halfling named Bennigan arrived with a message for the travelers Khalid and Jaheira, delivered from the ward of their friend Gorion.

Upon finding out they were no longer at the inn and had left no indicator of where they planned to go next, he shrugged, left the letter with the owner of the inn, and had a helping of the side of venison that the Mirrorshades had roasting in the kitchen with a flagon of ale. He then stayed the night before walking back home the next day, whistling a small tune to himself, to live the rest of his life in relative comfort with his close-knit family in Beregost.

What? Not _all _contributions to a story can be impressive.

(*)

"So... Nashkel," Imoen said. "It's a nice place?"

"It... could be _worse._" Khalid offered.

"It is a fair enough village, though the mines are a blight on the land. A cesspit that delves into the earth seeking her riches and gives nothing in return. Were it not for the fact that so many lives depend on the iron it produces, I would not cry to see it burned from the map," Jaheira said.

"... Is there anything you _do _like, Jarrie?"

"I like the solitude of the deep forests. I like seeing animals roaming free, the balance and beauty of nature. A gentle sunny day, with naught to do but meditate on the grace of Silvanus and enjoy the company of my husband," Jaheira said, a rare warmth in her tone. It was ruined a bit when she continued, in the exact same tone, "Oh, and killing slavers."

"... … … what was that last one?"

"A despicable breed of person. So smug, so superior, so certain in their ability to steal forever the freedoms that are the right of all living things. It brings me deep-seated joy to take from them their vile empires, free their captives, and show them the collapse of everything I value before I smash in their disgusting skulls and leave them for the worms," Jaheira said, patting her quarterstaff almost fondly.

Imoen fell back a few steps to walk next to Khalid, who was bringing up the rear, and whispered, "Your. Wife. _Scares me_."

"J-Jaheira means well. S-she just tends to prefer nature to people," Khalid said warmly. Then, more softly, he whispered, "And s-sometimes she scares me too."

"If you two are finished conspiring against me," Jaheira said flatly, "we _have _been marching half a day already. A meal would not be amiss."

"Ooooooh! Are you gonna teach me the simple and hearty meals of the wandering adventurer?" Imoen asked.

Jaheira reached into her pack and tossed Imoen a travel biscuit and a small canteen.

"... This isn't hearty," Imoen muttered, gnawing at the strangely rock-like bread as best she could, and sitting on a nearby log to take the load off her feet.

As she nibbled at a biscuit that she could only assume was made of sawdust and horror, she took the chance to look over the papers she had... erm, _borrowed _from Tarnesh back at the inn. With Jaheira slavedriving her off to the south (And she hated slavers! The hypocrisy of some people) she hadn't had much time to look at any of them, and she suspected they were, if not important, than at least _interesting. _

The first one was about what she had been expecting... and afraid of. A description that matched Seffie pretty much dead-on... and matched Imoen herself tangentially, but she didn't so much care about that. The issue that worried her so much was that this was proof. Definitive and irrefutable. Someone... someone wanted Seffie dead. Seffie, who was basically the nicest person in the _world_. A bit stuffy maybe, but a total sweetheart who basically spent her days wandering around Candlekeep asking to do favors for people and had not beaten the tar out of Imoen nearly so often as she deserved. She was obedient, and hardworking, and always put other people before herself even when (in Imoen's expert opinion) it was a damn stupid thing to do.

Who the _Hells _would put a bounty on a girl like that? And _why_? They were clearly serious about it, if they would go so far as killing Gorion to get at her. The bounty notice was for a kill only, no intent to take her alive. The closest thing Imoen had to a sister, and some... some _bastard _who had never even met her wanted to kill her and didn't even give a reason why.

Well. That just wasn't gonna do.

Sephiria was still alive, she was sure of that. Since whoever had killed Gorion only wanted her dead, and hadn't rescinded this bounty, that meant she was at least still alive. And more... Imoen just thought she would _know _if Sephiria was dead. It was a sister thing.

She still didn't know _where _she was, of course. But she was the sort who would get into freelance heroism if you left her alone for ten minutes. And that meant Imoen's current path was the best she was going to find. Khalid and Jaheira would find her Seffie, and then she and Seffie would find whoever had killed Gorion and hurt them really, _really _bad.

Y'know. In a family way.

(*)

"You know," Garrick said idly, "It occurs to me we don't have a healer."

"Shut up, Garrick," Acherai muttered.

"I just say this because there appears to be a _lot _of zombies."

"Shut _up_, Garrick."

"And I think our current party configuration was chosen on the assumption that we'd be, well, fighting _one man_. And not one man and his horde of the undead."

"Garrick!" Acherai whispered harshly. "Do you want me to use you as zombie bait?!" 

"... No?"

"Then _shut your damn mouth!" _he snapped, still not letting his tone rise above a harsh whisper.

The problem was, Garrick had a point for once. They _had _come out here expecting to find one man. A dangerous cleric with ready spells, perhaps, but one man. And they _had _found one man, it was just he was surrounded by at least thirty creatures that might have once _been _men. Both rotting zombies and animated skeletons, the lowliest of undead perhaps, but... _thirty _of them.

"We turn about. We call this one a waste and we turn about," Kagain said flatly. "We're not to be bringin' this one down."

"No!" Sephiria snapped. "We cannot... he made those out of _people! Innocent people _that he's... waylaid and murdered! This man is an abomination! Torm would never approve us leaving him to continue his predations!"

"Really?" Garrick asked. "Well, luckily I don't really worship Torm, and I don't _think _the other two do either... I mean, really, Elves and Dwarves tend to have their own gods, so."

"... Garrick. Stop helping," Sephiria murmured, admittedly starting to find it harder and harder to argue with Acherai when he treated the bard like an imbecile. "My point is... well... _I'm _supposed to be the leader, aren't I? You said I was. We have to act like I would. And I would _never _let a monster like this continue his work."

Acherai winced. "Yes, I suppose I did say that, but... well, I was a bit counting on us having a numerical advantage. Maybe we _should _come back at some other point."

"When he has twice as many zombies?! He's only going to get stronger!" Sephiria snapped.

"Mother? Is that you?" Bassilus the mad cleric asked, his gaze drifting over toward the copse of trees the small adventuring band was hiding behind.

There was silence for several long seconds, before Acherai said, _"Talk to him._"

Sephiria, eyes wide, said, "Um... yes, my son! It is I... your... mother!"

"Well, we're dead," Kagain said, almost cheerfully.

"Ah, mother! I've not seen you since the sacking of Zhentil Keep! I'd feared you had perished... Thurm here nearly did as well, and I'd heard so little of the family since I escaped!" Bassilus said, a huge smile on his face as he patted a zombie on the back as he continued to speak to, as far as they could tell, the tree that Sephiria was standing behind. "Come, join us! We were just telling tales of the old days, before the fall, before so many were... were... no, that's not right, we all escaped..."

Sephiria was, for a moment, overcome with pity for the poor creature. Cyricist and murderer he might have been, but he was also clearly sick in the head to believe these creatures were family lost in the infamous sacking of Zhentil Keep. "I... I..."

Acherai sighed. "Yes, my son!" he shouted out, reasoning that Basillus _probably _was not lucid enough to tell one voice from another if he thought his zombies could talk to him. "I... have not seen you since Zhentil Keep. Erm, thank the gods we all got out alive!"

"Yup. Dead," Kagain continued.

Bassilus nodded, smiling, but a shade of doubt had come into his eyes as he continued to talk to the voices in his head. "Yes, yes, it... it was a true... miracle? Or... no. No, we... no. _No! _You lie! They didn't escape, none of them! Only I... only I..."

Acherai smiled. "Only you escaped? When you fled and left them all to die, so you could replace them all with these mockeries? What a terrible son you were..."

"No! No, I... no..." Bassilus fell to his knees, sobbing, his eyes wide and streaming tears as his gaze tore around the clearing wildly, his undead falling around him in lifeless piles as the will behind them extinguished their false lives in his madness and grief.

"Well, I'll be damned," Kagain said appreciatively, hefting his axe. "You really might be just crazy enough to get us all out of this alive."

"I'm not crazy, I'm brilliant," Acherai drawled. "And, oh yes, before I forget: Kill him."

"Acherai, can we really just execute him? He is clearly unaware of his actions," Sephiria said. "And what he said... to flee from the death of his family..."

"Oh, gods above, you're _empathizing,_" Acherai said with open astonishment. "Don't. This is not like you and your father, dear. This man is a priest of Cyric. God of, among other things, strife, madness, and _murder_. You know what that means, don't you?"

Sephiria sighed. "... Yes. He was a killer long before he lost his family. Even if you could argue him innocent of these deaths, he is hardly an innocent man." Standing, she drew her sword, walking over to the sobbing man, preparing to exact justice. She stopped beside him, and raised her blade, and closed her eyes. "Torm the true, patron of knights and servants of justice, guide my arm this day, and take the soul of this man to the fate he deserv-"

She was cut off, then, by the kneeling man slamming his golden warhammer into her stomach, a shock of agony running through her as the enchanted weapon sent arcs of lightning rolling through her metal armor. She was hurled backwards and slammed into the ground on her back, gasping to recover the wind that had been knocked out of her.

Bassilus looked down on her, smiling widely, his eyes wide and manic. "Mother! Don't worry. You'll be one of us soon, and then _everything _will be okay."

The holy symbol of Cyric around his neck grew darker, the light around him dying, and he began to chant.

Acherai cursed under his breath, and said, "_Why did she stop to pray?!_"

(*)

Jaheira nodded at Mayor Ghastkill's words. "As promised, Berrun. We will enter the mines tomorrow in the morning, and determine the cause of your issues."

Berrun Ghastkill, mayor of the mining town of Nashkell, the northernmost town in the nation of Amn, sighed. "My thanks, Jaheira. Between the captain of my guard going mad, and keeping order in the town, I simply don't have enough men to clear this out on my own. Made worse by the fact that what few guards I can _get _to go into the mines at all are panicked by the endless yammering of the miners going on and on about 'demons'..."

Jaheira chuckled slightly. "If it helps, if a true tanar'ri would likely not constrain itself to a mineshaft. Whatever your problem might be, it is not a demon."

The mayor sighed and ran his hand through his graying hair, highlighting a scar on his scalp. "I know that, and you know that, but try getting some idiot farmer's son who's been booted up to the border guard in the worst town in the nation to understand. I do not have the cream of the crop to work with here, Jaheira... unless its curdled."

Jaheira chuckled again. She was not one prone to humor, but Ghastkill was an old soldier and companion of more than one adventure, the sort of person she let her guard down around more than others and tolerated with much less of her trademark temper. As opposed to...

"Guys, guys!" Imoen shouted, running up to the two. "You will _never guess _what I found!"

Jaheira winced and tried not to scream. The girl meant well, she really did, but in the name of _Silvanus _Imoen wore on her. It was hard to believe she was truly a ward of Gorion; she had none of his dignity, none of his subtle humor, none of his restraint.

She sighed, chastising herself for these uncharitable thoughts. Imoen was going through a very hard time, and Jaheira knew that she could be... _difficult. _Perhaps she was simply missing Gorion herself. She had not seen him in years, but Gorion was fondly remembered. Perhaps she was projecting her own sense of loss onto the poor girl...

"I recruited a new guy to help us!" Imoen said, waving at the man following her. He was an enormous man, easily two feet taller than the girl who came before him. He was also completely bald, had a pale blue tribal tattoo over his eye, and appeared to have a hamster on his head. "His name is Minsc! I found him standing around and he had a sword so I decided to have him join our team. Isn't he _awesome?!_"

… of course, it was also possible that Imoen was just _horrible, _Jaheira realized, as the red haze of fury fell across her vision.

"I _see_," Jaheira said through gritted teeth. "And rather than helping Khalid make reservations at the inn, as _you were asked to do_, you instead chose to go about recruiting strangers into our fold. You, who are the _target of assassins, _chose to recruit a _stranger _to _sleep next to us_."

"Worry not!" the man proclaimed a bit more loudly than was technically needed. "Minsc is a force of justice and righteousness, not a force of smashing little girls! He is a noble warrior! He is a _titan _of pleasantness! His sword is large and his heart is pure, and while his head is somewhat foggy he is guided by the wisdom of Boo!"

"I... I have _no _idea what that you are talking about," Jaheira admitted, the red fury giving way to confusion more quickly than she'd have liked.

"The wisdom," Minsc said, picking up the hamster and holding it out to her, as if he expected her to be awed by it (and, in a sad kind of way, she was).

"See what I mean?" Imoen squealed. "He's got a giant sword _and _a cute pet! And I'm sorry, but you and Khalid need to laugh more. This guy is _hilarious!_"

"I... I..." Jaheira sighed. "I confess he does not strike me as being of malicious intent. And he _does_ look... athletic. He seems like one who can handle himself in battle, and it is possible an extra arm would be of value."

"Then small leathered woman is in luck, for Minsc has two arms, and each of them is so strong as to be worth two more! He shall strike down all your foes like a man with four arms, only without getting his arms tangled against each other!"

"... 'small leathered woman'?"

"It fits you, kinda?" Imoen said helpfully. "I mean, you're not really _small, _but compared to him, who _isn't _on the small side..."

"Stop helping, Imoen," Jaheira said in a long-suffering tone. "Tell me... Minsc, was it? What do you seek in return for this act? A share of the spoils, or do you act out of the goodness of your heart?"

Minsc sighed. "A tale of woe it is, and a tale of woe I shall tell! Minsc would indeed much like to help small leathered woman and small pink girl out of the goodness of his heart, for Minsc's heart has much goodness! But Minsc is cursed by fate to need the aid of strong swords for justice, for he faces a foe too large even for he!"

"It turns out his friend-" Imoen began.

"Witch."

"His friend-witch was kidnapped! I figured, he needs help, _we _need help, everyone needs help! Makes sense, right?" Imoen asked.

"Minsc makes sense in all things," Minsc said.

Jaheira sighed. "Imoen. We may all die tomorrow. We may uncover information that demands we act on it immediately to save lives. We do _not_ have time to be taking on new quests, and even if we _did_, you were both irresponsible and extremely foolish to take on new responsibilities without consulting the rest of the group!"

Imoen pouted tears filling her eyes. "But... b-but..."

Jaheira winced. "Oh, be silent. Just... just tell the man he must go."

"... But h-his... his friend..." Imoen said, a sob entering her tone. Her eyes got red and The sun appeared to grow a little dimmer.

"... … _Fine. _He can _stay_. But paying for his room comes from your share of any reward!"

Imoen made a little squealing sound not entirely unlike the large man's hamster, and ran off toward the inn.

(*)

Sephiria looked up at the face of death, struggling to get some kind of motion from her numb limbs as the cleric called to his loathsome god. Her fingers twitched madly, unable to grasp her sword, her legs shook, she found herself unable to stand. Crackling blue-black energy rippled between his fingers, and she had the sinking sensation she was going to join his 'family' in short order...

A crossbow bolt slammed home. It didn't slam home into _Bassilus_, unfortunately, instead hitting the ground next to his feet while Garrick shouted, "Oh _dear_," but it was a distraction, if nothing else. The cleric looked up, his snarled cry to Cyric changing its tone, changing into a _demand _for power. A sickening wave of dark energy blanketed the area, and though Sephiria was not even _in _it she could feel it, the disgusting aura of the Unholy Blight, the power of Cyric...

And then Kagain, totally unharmed, charged out of the darkness and drove his horned helmet into the priest's gut. "That's it, then? I thought you were a _nasty _one. Felt like a light breeze."

"Murderer... monster... slayer of children!" Basillus snarled, hefting his hammer. "You _killed my family!_"

"_HA! _Well, I'm going to kill you. Is that close enough?" Kagain chuckled, swinging his ax in. The cleric was oddly strong and armored, and his magical golden weapon was vastly superior to the simple steel weapon the dwarf wielded. He was, however, at a major disadvantage.

He was _tall_.

Two warriors, both armored, both bearing shields and weapons of similar reach, would normally be rather evenly matched, all other things being equal. Kagain was more skilled, but Bassilus fought with a rage so deep it was nearly demonic. The two would likely have been equal indeed, had it not been for something that all dwarves had learned from a young age:

It was much easier to defend your _head _than your _legs, _and height and reach were only an advantage if you used them to keep an opponent _away _from you.

The man swung his hammer down again and again, practically frothing at the mouth with fury... and Kagain's shield, held above his head, caught every blow, while the dwarf returned his attacks at the mains waist, knees, thighs. Too low for Bassilus to accurately bring his own shield into play, at least not while he was also trying to attack. The axe struck in again and again, hitting at the lighter armor of the cleric's legs, piercing the chain links and cutting into him, sending streams of blood rolling down them as he continued to hammer away. To all appearances it was a race against time... what would give out first, the dwarf's shield before the magic hammer, or the mad cleric's body?

The answer would be 'neither'.

Kagain was not a scholar, not a master of divine knowledge. He was a sellsword. And so, he did not spot the chant, the hissed prayer hidden in Bassilus's inhuman snarls and mad rants... at least not until the wave of energy rolled over him, and his body froze, his muscles held in place as firmly as if they had become stone.

The cleric smirked wickedly, his eyes filled with a familiarity that was somehow worse than simple madness as he looked on the dwarf struggling against the bonds of his magic, and murmured affectionately, "Oh, cousin Melvar, you always _were _such a scamp. Don't worry, I know you're sick, but I shall help you feel better soon..." as he lifted his hammer high.

And with a sharp crack, he fell forward, his neck shifting at an odd and inhuman angle, his eyes going panicked and lost before he even hit the ground.

Acherai, his spell of invisibility dispelled by the action of striking the man's neck with his heavy metal staff, smiled wickedly. "Well. Not quite so seamless as I'd hoped for, but I'd say it went well enough in the end," stepping forward, he swung the staff down on the man's head several more times, to be safe; his attack had been perfect and taken the man totally by surprise, and he knew the neck was broken. Still, it was hard to predict how an injury like that could incapacitate a cleric. Best to make _certain _he was dead.

"All right. Ladies, gentlemen? Are we all alive?" he asked. Sephiria twitched, continuing to work her way slowly back to a sitting position, and Kagain tried and failed to make his lips move in an answer, producing a kind of frustrated tic to the corner of his mouth. "Yes, then. Well, congratulations to us all, then! A dangerous madman brought low, a very, very nice bounty all ours, and it cost us little in the end save some healing potions and perhaps a new shield for our dwarven friend, if he has some issue using the late cleric's. A _fine _day indeed!"

And then an ax, expertly sharpened and balanced for throwing, came flying down off of the ridge of rocks to their north, slamming into Acherai's shoulder and throwing him onto his back, staring up breathlessly into the sky, his mind unable to process what had just happened.

As blackness drew in around his vision, and the sounds of at least two warriors in armor charging at them filled his ears, his only thought was, _All right, I admit it, Garrick did have a point about needing to recruit a healer._

(*)

The Nashkel mines were dark, and cold, the entrance filled with filthy miners with no hope in their eyes, and the depths ringing with what Imoen could not help but notice sounded an awful lot like something growling.

"So," she said hopefully. "I don't suppose I can stay out and make sure no wolves follow us in, then? Because they are just an epidemic lately, and-"

With an annoyed sigh, Jaheira grabbed the girl's arm and dragged her into the darkness, Khalid and Minsc on either side of them, the former looking grim and sturdy in a way that nobody who saw him in the light of day would have imagined, and the latter smiling like he was about to go on a school field trip to see pretty horses.

In hidden alcoves and tunnels stretching through the mine, staring in on the main paths, many, many hungry eyes looked in on the four as they entered the darkness. The growls grew louder, and joining them came the clatter of weapons being readied, canine jaws drooling with hunger and bloodlust, ready to pounce on the unsuspecting adventurers...

And then Minsc thought he saw something that looked like it might have been unpleasant, and everything very quickly started to go wrong for _everyone_.


End file.
